Midnight Suitor
by Silvermasque
Summary: Curiousity Elation Hope Loneliness...emotions so deep and hidden that they have no names, for to name such a thing is to admit knowledge of it, and to admit knowledge is to accept a burden that will drive a man or woman past reason, and into madness...
1. Chapter 1

A little one shot written for Literature, we're studying Beverly Farmer and had to write our own creative response. And of course, where else would I turn to for inspiration but the Angel of Music and Masterpieces himself? Hope you enjoy (and my teacher doesn't find out)

_**Midnight Suitor**_

She stands at the kitchen sink, hands resting on the wooden bench top. Allowing the heavy golden afternoon light to dance and play lazily across her bare arms and face. Her gaze flickers to the frozen lump of meat defrosting on the stainless steel draining board. She touches light fingers to the white furry frost, silently marvelling at the way the heat of her fingers melts the ice and spreads the message of warmth on to fellow crystals, leaving damp patches of pink and shiny red areas where her fingertips had rested. Ring finger, pinkie, forefinger and finger of honour, like the notes on a piano. She smiles lightly at the thought. Beethoven's Third Symphony in minced steak, oh how the crowds would cheer!

The kettle boils and releases a cloud of steam, she turns from the sink to lift the heavy silver instrument, tilting it forward to allow a bubbling splash to pour into the wide-rimmed mug, striped with cream, cerise, dusk blue and wheat gold. Water dashes out and over the bench, clear lakes on the white surface. She regards them a moment, then shrugs, taking up her mug to inhale the breathy dark scent of instant coffee, about four teaspoons beyond the good doctors recommended daily intake. She takes a sip, scalding the tip of her tongue, as if it matters.

A floorboard creaks behind her and she turns, holding the mug away to stop it spilling, to see if it's Him. The house is empty.

Of course, she thinks ruefully, He never appears during the day. The golden shafts of light that haze her vision are not for Him. He belongs to the night. Mentally she scolds herself for getting so carried away. Of course He would never show Himself to her now! Only in the hours of darkness was she permitted to know Him, the silent early time between midnight and morning, when she lay alone in her bed, tossing with insomnia and dreaming of a better place, would He come.

His cold fingers brushing her transparent skin, where veins lit pathways across her body in a strange race to places beyond imagination. Always the same, He in His impeccable finery, she rumpled and twisted in her bed, body longing for sleep even as she cried out for Him in her dreams. Only then could she hear Him, only then would He permit her to seek His cold flesh with her desperate hands, begging, pleading for Him to stay. Of course that is impossible. The more she tries to hold Him, the more insubstantial He seems. Only when she loses all holding to reason does she wake from deep slumber to find His scent still clinging to her hair and skin.

But of course, these are the nights she can never remember at all.

She takes another sip of coffee, strong and rasping down her throat, and stares at the spindly branches of far off trees, sunk in the red glare of the lowering sun. Perhaps, if she is lucky, he will appear for her tonight. Perhaps this time, with coffee burning through her veins, she can stay awake long enough to remember his visit when the morning comes, and the pale colourless dawn reaches out cold fingers to remind her of life. Perhaps.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I own everything and nothing in this piece

Cap'n Meg: Thanks! One of my few pieces I worked very hard on to make it sound right

Lady Assassin Moonbeam: Thankyou very muchly

Reltistic: I love your reviews, they brighten up my day

Black Belt Blondes: Finger of honour? You know the middle finger, I've been seduced my metaphors, I love saying things without actually speaking or writing the words

I can't believe I'm doing this, I don't have the time, this was never meant to be a phic of any description, though I guess it fits my current mood. But very well, a warning, this is not, in all fact, a phic, it is not meant to be, there is no plot, no continuation, and as far as I can see, not a story, merely the thoughts of those within.

Who are they? I honestly do not know. A friend commented it could be Erik and Christine or Dracula and his bride, when first written it was Erik and myself, but who it is now? Well, maybe time will tell. I beg your reviews, but do not demand updates, this is a story that writes itself only when it is willing to be written, and for that, I ask you to forgive me, for this is as much out of my hands as it is yours. (Bows) So let the tale continue…

He stands by the side of the bed, gazing down on the twisted form of her sleeping body. The mattress is large for one person, a queen, she curls away from him to one side, near to where the lamp is attached to the wall for reading, the scattered texts spread over the floor are silent testimony to this fact. Yet her legs she kicks outwards, as if she feels guilty for not making use of the space, even while her hands are wrapped around her body, holding herself under the doona. He is silent, seeing her as she sleeps, hair rat-tailed and tangled over her shoulders, pulled away from her neck. He almost smiles at the irony of her fear, nothing may ever touch her neck, else unreasoning panic will gain control and she will hear nothing but the sounds of her own voice inside her head, screaming for freedom. And yet, the throat is his speciality. Perhaps, he wonders there is truth in the adage "opposites attract"

She murmurs softly in her sleep, and he is alert immediately, returning his mind to the figure half asleep before him, watching the frowns and emotions that play across her naked, sleeping, face. He frowns in return, he only wishes for her to sleep, rest in peace young Angel, for there is one who watches over your safety.

Suddenly she wakes, her eyes shoot open and she gasps as one returning, dumped by the wild and treacherous waves of the sea, gulping in a body's air, chest heaving as she lays there, like a child waking from a bad dream. He feels a peculiar sense of pride as she swallows in the empty space her lightless room offers her, gases and a hollow room can provide what her body needs to live, but only he can grant her the essential spirit so basic and crucial to her true survival. A body's life comes easily enough, but the life of a soul balances on the edge of the sharpest blade, and it is _His_ presence that saves her from straying…and falling.

He tilts his head as he regards her more fully, she stiffens a moment in reply, then goes on breathing in the air she so desperately craves, the hesitation does not go unnoticed by him, _she knows he is there_.

She sits bolt upright, eyes huge and hair mussed, half twisted around to stare straight at him. The soft blue of her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, revealing translucent skin, crisscrossed with blue veins. Her hands clutch at the dyed cotton of the doona as her chest rises and falls, he can hear her heartbeat, thudding and thumping in the stillness of the room.

He stares at her, meeting her eyes, his own, sunk so deep in his skull they are like glowing coals in caverns of darkness, are watchful, guarding, owning.

She stretches her hands out to him, pleading silently for him to take her. He sighs in reply, softly, so softly the sound is barely heard above the shifting of the shadows, and opens his arms to her. She fumbles with his death cold fingers until she finds her grasp, holding his hands tightly she pulls herself over and up from the bed to stand before him, the other strap of her blue nightgown balanced precariously on the rounded curve of her smooth shoulder. He releases one hand to draw the strap back upwards with a single long white finger, protective of her modesty. The fingertip continues its journey, across her collar and up to beneath her chin, raising her head to risk looking into those amber stones glowing in the sockets of his eyes.

She presses against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in the soft blackness of his fine clothing. Slowly, he releases her fingers and surrounds her in shadowed darkness, placing his cold arms around the velvety fabric of her nightgown, resting his head against her tangled hair. He takes a step forward and the backs of her thighs are impressed upon the wooden bed frame, fingers softly caressing through her nightgown to the marble skin beneath. She turns her face up to him, curious, elated, hopeful and lonely, along with emotions so deep and hidden that they have no names, for to name such a thing is to admit knowledge of it, and to admit knowledge is to accept a burden that will drive a man or woman past reason, and into madness.

Gently, he lowers her back onto the covers of her bed, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other at the small of her back. Her hands rest on his chest, the space between them closing as he raises one thin knee onto the wide mattress, half straddling her. His eyes begin to brighten, glow, spin with intensity, she slides her hands up and onto his shoulders, down to his collar, brushing the rich fabrics with her touch. He lowers his great head to hers, as she breathes in time to the beating of his heart, he surges against her, and they press onto the rumpled sheets, souls, spirits, essences together entwined.


End file.
